Heart Strung Junkie
by malfunctionjunction
Summary: He is a sweet and kind and pleasing man. He gives all and asks for nothing in return. That is the art and tragedy of the heart broken junkie. Canada x Hungary.


**A/N: **Hello. Canada x Hungary. I hope you enjoy.

**Disclaimer: **Hidekaz Himaruya owns Hetalia and all Hetalia-related items. I just own the World Series DVD set, and I am proud of it too.

**Read. Relish. Review.**

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><p><em>Pretend that this is not real, <em>he tells his brain, _Pretend that you are not here._

But that doesn't work as the moment he opens eyes, his senses are again aware of their present status, and they mock his pathetic attempts at creating stability in his mind and body by making themselves sharper. Her scent is soapy and sweet like buttercups; the flower in her hair is brighter and redder. His hands tighten on the spare sheets of loose-leaf paper that roam about, and in this way, he realizes, she has shamed him but does not know it. Yet, he does not hate her, and is relieved that the thought hasn't rung any bells inside his brain. No, he cannot hate her, and he will not spoil himself with it.

He knows that love is much easier than hate.

"Matt?" Emerald green eyes blink up and flutter at him, "Is something wrong?"

Again, he remembers that he is next to her in the library. Not alone in his bedroom. He is among others in this environment, and he must act accordingly.

He blushes and shifts uncomfortably in his chair though it doesn't look that way, "Yeah, I'm fine. Fine as a whistle." And he regrets saying that because it makes him sound like an old man. He is not an old man; he turned twenty-two just three months ago.

She laughs at him, cantankerous and energetic, and his heart attacks the rest of his body with rhythmic beats that could be compared to the sounds of madness. Oh yes, yes, the feelings he held were manic and deranged, not all together. He did not, did not, want them out in the open, revealed and naked, but at the same time their intentions were aimed at being noticed. Seen.

"Fine as a whistle." She pats his head, "Who says that anymore?"

"No one," he admits.

She looks at him in silence and ignores the rest of the world. It feels, too damn close that the world is looking at him, inspecting and judging his worth. He twiddles his fingers and wants to look away. _Don't notice me! I am hidden!_ But she is stronger than he appears, and he wants to run away and hide. There was no doing that, too dangerous and blunt; he could not do it.

"Matthew." She smiles at him, and he melts on the inside, "Don't be sad."

"Wh-what?" He shakes his head, ignores the tug of pain in his head, "I'm not sad. Not sad at all. Why'd you say that?"

"Because you look sad," she tapped the tip of his nose, "But then, you always look a bit mopey." She does not know how that one tap on the nose caused his body shiver in pain, anticipation. He should not want, and for a long time he had not. The touch of her tender and flesh made finger riles him up, and he wants, wants, and yearns.

He does not want! He, Matthew Williams, does not want. Not ever. He is kind and obedient. He does not whine or complain. He helps others and asks for nothing, nothing, in return. This is wrong, but he cannot stop this want in his loins. He cannot stop this want in his heart. And he wants to cry, _don't fill up eyes-don't_, because he should not want her.

He does. Nothing can help that.

"I'm not sad," he sniffed and turns back to his work, "I think you're being silly. Stop being silly Lizzie."

Everyone calls her Lizzie, but he is the only one who says it in a hushed-untouched whisper.

"I'm not silly!" She puffs out her cheeks and moves closer to where he is seated, "I'm going to find out."

He must revert! He must revert to the place that is safe and protective. "Sure, I'm sure you will," he looks down at his homework, "not today, Lizzie. Today, I'm going to help you with your History homework."

She frowns at him. She frowns and shakes her head. Her straight-curl strands rock with her head, but she does not protest because he is right. She has to work on History because History is not her best subject, and he wants her to pass as much as she wants to pass. He wants to make her happy, and he makes her happy in small ways. Insignificant ways.

"Okay." She puts her hand on his arm, "I'll be a good girl now, but I don't want you to be sad. It makes me worry."

"And how would you know that I'm sad," he whispers, "you're a mind reader, now?"

She chuckles, "Nope!" And then she dives into her book sack and retrieves a medium-sized but thick book, "I've been working on my Doujinshi! And you remind me of one of my characters, or he could've been inspired by you, I don't know for sure. But he's depressed right now, and he reminds me of you. Just a bit."

When she hands him the book he is frightened to take it, but he does. He is not mean. He does not object. There is a, albeit small, comparison between the character and he. The sad truth is the unrequited love, attraction strong as it is, between the male protagonist and the young man. Matthew is not homosexual, and had not thought of a man in the attractive-love sense as the attractive-he _fucks _the girls all the time way.

"He does seem off," he states quietly, "I hope he gets better."

"He will. I hope." She laughs, but unsure, "I don't know what will happen to him. Not yet. Wish I did, I like this character and want what's best for him."

"Oh really?" He loses interest in the homework that must be done, "Putting him through much agony sounds a bit cruel, don't you think?"

"But it makes him stronger!" She protests indignantly, "And he doesn't deserve what his beloved has to offer. He's too good for him. Too sweet and kind and his beloved will only ruin him, you know?"

No he does not. Too close to home, and he sits in his chair staring at her but not. His stomach does flips, and his mind goes blank. But it appears that her voice and her words are the most important thing as they blur out inside his body. _Too sweet and kind and his beloved will only ruin him._ No! She does and will not ruin him. He is positive of that. He will ruin himself, and that is all. A sickening and cruel splash lands in his stomach, rises to his throat, and he thinks whether or not is he allowing her to ruin him through his inactivity.

He is a kind and sweet. He gives all and asks for nothing in return.

"Mattie?" She tilts her head, "Matt, mmm…you've blocked out again, haven't you?"

"I'm sorry!" He jumps in his chair and raises his hands up, "I'm sorry. I kinda did."

She pouts but is not mad. He knows when she is mad. Her face will turn red with rage, and her eyes will glitter with an emerald sharpness that he thought not possible. But he has seen it, seen it numerous times in the past, and does not want it brought up.

"You're nice," she laughs at him and punches him lightly on the shoulder, "and that's why it's hard to be mad at you." He winces at the contact but devours it whole.

The pain she gives him physically is no match to the pain that he receives mentally.

He opens his mouth to reprimand her. They need to return to their work, but she looks beyond his shoulders. Miniscule when compared to his brother, he does not mind it at all, but he notices the widening of her eyes. First cool and mellow; second, wide and excited. She gets up without warning and rushes to the opposite side of the café, in the library, and with open arms embraces a man who seems annoyed but happy to be held.

Matthew does not look up to see who the person is. He already knows. It does not stop the heart feeling inside his chest from simmering down; it does not stop the silent weeping. His heart screams and rants. It swears and condemns, but it does not hate. His heart cannot hate what it loves. It cannot hate what it envies. The man has done no wrong. No wrong against her, and he could accept that. It had to be acceptable.

"Roderich, I thought you had practice." She looks up at the man's deep violet eyes questionably, "Why are you here?"

"My idiot cousin thought it a good idea to bring a drum set to a classical music concert rehearsal." The edge in the man's voice was present and dangerous, "Yes, is an idiot." His accent was thicker than hers. So present and crippled; it was not like hers at all, light and easily flowed. He didn't like the accent the man had, but she loved it, loved him,

"Gilbert means well, but he is a douche-nozzle." She laughs and pecks his cheek, and though the man attempts to be indifferent, he knows there is a shade of pink somewhere. There has to be a shade of pink.

Yet, Matthew does not hate him.

"I'm sorry!" She realizes her mistake, "Mattie was tutoring me, and I completely abandoned him. We can talk later about your failed rehearsal."

"No worries!" His mind shouts livid retorts at him, accusations, but he does not heed them. "No, your test isn't until the sixth. That's two weeks away. You've done more than enough," he rubbed the back of his neck awkwardly, "we can pick this up on Friday, or whenever you can."

She pauses as she walks and stares at him. Surprised, he reasons, and makes note that the body language she contains is more open than her words. For a moment, tiny-spec moment, he knows she wants to protest. She does not like to leave something unfinished, and that is what he is making her to do. But he maintains the sweet and kind and merciful smile, filled with affection, and she cannot say no to that. She wants to, but she cannot say no to him. He feels like a father, sitting in the chair and eyeing the man who has claimed his love as his own, with blank and unreadable eyes.

"I don't want to be a problem," she says while she packs her things, but stops and looks at him, hard. She looks at him, wants to tell him more, but he does not allow it. He shakes her head and motions to the waiting man on the other side. Sophisticated and dressed in indigo, the man is a polite one and does not barge into their conversation. Yet, Matthew is good at this, the man knows and feels the atmosphere shifting against his favor. She does want to remain, in spite of his presence, and the man feels a bit anxious at knowing and seeing that.

"Like I said," he explains, "We will have enough time to finish academic studying. And maybe play a bit of Skyrim when we get the chance to, in between." He laughs without humor, but it subdues her.

"O-okay Mattie." She whips the book sack on her shoulder, but hugs him before she embarks, "Call me later. And please, please, stop looking so sad. I can't stop worrying about you."

He does not look at her when she turns her head around. He does not give the man the satisfaction to peer at his resigned state. No, no, no he is not without envy, and he is not without spite. He made a promise long ago that unless he was given a firm and groundbreaking reason, he would not hate. No. He would not. And so, the two disappear out the doors, into the sunlight that is the school day afternoon, and he remains in his chair, in the back of the library café, and looks.

Minutes pass, and the familiar vibrations of his cell phone brings him back to reality. "Hello," he is surprised by his voice's croaked tone, "Matthew here."

"Yo' Man," it is Carlos, and he is not uncharacteristically happy, "Got Tekken x Street Fighter ready!"

"That's nice." He is drained, "I don't think I'm in the mood right now."

Carlos sounds distracted but upset, he turns against him, "What? Oh no, we've been waiting months for it to come out, and now that I've got it, you say no? Bro, what's wrong?"

"Nothing."

"Elizabeta, ain't it?" He scoffs, and he can see the Cuban man shake his head in sympathy, "Look, I'll get the kush, and you bring yourself. We'll have fun. Forget your love troubles, and maybe we'll give your brother a good ol' run two!"

His head begins to hurt, but it helps his mind to mask the true pain, "No pranking Al. I got in trouble because you turned his hair magenta, and Mom and Dad have yet to forgive you for the burning boxers."

"But you'll come, right"

"Fine," he is acceptable and pleasing, "I'll come."

He grabs his belongings, but he does not, does not, think about the beautiful young woman with a crimson red flower in her hair. He does not see, does not, the animated emerald of his eyes, and he ignores the handsome, classical musician that has wooed the woman from him. He does not respond to the flood of tears behind his eyes, and he pretends, makes it up, that all that happened was not. He walks out of the library in silence, and waves good-by to the desk people who give him polite, sympathetic, smiles. He shields his eyes from the sunlight, which burns and relieves him at the same time. Spring is about, and it is alive. Flapping, hard and erratic, wings of green-purple humming bird rang in his ears, and he sighs.

Matthew is sweet and kind and merciful. He gives all and asks for nothing in return. He will forget, reimagine, and pretend the day did not exist. Suck in the loving herbs, he will. Fade out in vague, timid hallucinations, and he will forget. She will not exist to him in that mindset, but she will, always, be there. With her red crimson flower and dynamic emerald, sparkling, green eyes.

Simple pleasures smile at him, and so does she.

That is what he promises himself.  
><em>Pretend it does not exist.<em>

And so it won't.

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><p><strong>AN: **Yes, Canada (Matthew) is a certified pothead! I'd say that he smokes it occasionally, and he's feeling pretty crummy right now. Go smoke your pot with Carlos (Cuba). Now, I read on TvTropes that it was confirmed in Bloodbath 2010, and I've agreed with myself that I have to reread. I didn't catch the Stoner Canada at all, and if anyone happens to remember, tell me.

M'kay. I can continue this. I so can. I probably will. I wanted to get something out, and it just came to me. I was writing something completely different when I had the shipper epiphany that I like Canada x Hungary. I like Austria x Hungary and Prussia x Hungary, but I love Canada x Hungary. I am not ashamed.

Reviews are love. I'm not too proud to beg. Please, with sugar lumps and Butterfingers on top, leave a review after reading. Tell me where I stumbled at, and or where I triumphed at. I love all Reviews. All Reviews get love and appreciation from me. Thank you for reading, reviewing, alerting, and all that jazz.

Have a great weekend!


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